


Just Breathe

by letme_follow



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letme_follow/pseuds/letme_follow
Summary: Spencer Reid is diagnosed with a brain tumor. He struggles to find a reason to live on as he contemplates treatment options. When the team eventually find out, they come together as a family to help. The devastating news is what Aaron needed to finally realize how much the young genius means to him. But is it too late?
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 20
Kudos: 97





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's POV

What is the point of living any longer? He struggles each day, desperately searching for a reason to continue on, but he finds absolutely nothing. His work is emotionally taxing – the subjects of their pursuits often leaving dozens of bodies in their wake. He would stare at their mistreated corpses, wondering whose sister, mother, or cousin would identify the body before it’s buried away. His heart would grow heavier, until it became difficult to even breathe. Then, when the team would finally catch their unsub, it would never be relieving. 

The people that they hunt – they’re the utter dregs of humanity. They kill, maim, rape, or torture their victims. No matter their individual intentions, it is his job to mentally slip into their shoes to figure out their reasonings – the why, how, or when – before another innocent life is taken. 

It has simply become too much.

He lay in his bed with the lights off. A faraway look is in his eyes as he contemplates calling Rossi to ask for sick leave. Since he joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit four years ago, he has never taken a day off, not even when he had the flu. The team will develop their own suspicions for his absence, but Spencer hopes that they will refrain from sending someone out to check on him. Morgan is especially protective – he may call, if only to hear Spencer’s voice to soothe his own concerns. 

He turns on his side; the nightstand is close by. It has documents strewn all over the top, along with a pile of medical texts stacked precariously near the lamp. He reaches for one of the papers. His eyes begin to water as he unfolds it. 

It’s a note from a doctor – an _oncologist_. 

For the dozenth time, he rereads the print. 

He stifles a sob, the paper crumpling in his hand as he throws it away from him. His cell phone is ringing, but he doesn’t bother answering it.


	2. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's POV

It’s the third day since he made the call. Spencer used his mother’s fading health as an excuse to get away. He even purchased a plane ticket right after the call – a roundtrip flight from Virginia to Nevada – just in case Garcia decided to examine his financial records. As he had expected, the team is concerned. They ring his phone and leave voicemails when he does not answer. Some are short and to the point, while others are more playfully threatening to veil their worry. 

He tries to ignore their calls, but it is more difficult than he imagines. He settles on sending a text every now and then, if simply to ease their minds. But he can only keep them at bay for so long. He only has four more days to fix this. 

Spencer sits on his unmade bed; legs crisscrossed as he taps a thoughtful finger against his chin. The textbook resting on his lap is thick and heavy. His eyes burn as he scans the pages for hours. He takes care to dogear particular chapters of interest and scribble notes in the journal next to him. 

Finally, Spencer sighs in defeat and shoves the book aside. He flops back onto his mattress and stares at the ceiling. The words tumbling inside of his head make his heart pound. He doesn’t need to look at the notepad to reread what he has written down. 

_Radiation therapy_

_Chemotherapy_

_Brain surgery_

All treatment options with extreme risks. His mind is already habitually listing off all of the side effects of each one. It feels like a gaping black hole is widening in his chest. His stomach growls, but he’s too sick with fear to attempt eating. 

In the letter, his doctor had requested to see him tomorrow morning. He wants to discuss further diagnostics. In preparation for the visit, Spencer had taken it upon himself to research every single possible treatment option available in his texts. He thought if he knew exactly what he is facing, that it may be easier to decide what to do next.

But his mind is far from relaxed. He’s shaking in the bed – his books scattered across the floor - and he is afraid for his life.


	3. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's POV

Spencer Reid decides that waiting for a doctor is the most nerve-racking experience he’s ever been through thus far. It has been exactly one hour and thirty-seven minutes since he first stepped into the hospital, and twenty-four minutes since a nurse placed him in an empty examination room. He honestly feels like he will vomit or faint from the sheer anxiety that is building up inside his chest with each passing second.

He hugs himself, promptly rumpling his sweater vest. It’s far too cold in the room. The fluorescent lights are so bright that they seem to burn his corneas. The white walls are plastered with medical posters and charts. He has already read them four times. Every nurse or doctor that scuffles by the door makes his heart clench in anticipation. 

A firm knock breaks the silence. The door opens to reveal a man in a white coat. Spencer is already analyzing the newcomer. Ivory, slightly tanned skin – probably from a recent vacation at the beach. His beard is neatly trimmed and there is an ever so slight scar above his lip. Spencer guesses that it’s a claw mark. He inspects the man’s shirt and confirms his suspicions – there are tiny cat hairs stuck in the fabric. His nails are manicured, and a silver ring adorns his left finger. Definitely married; no kids. From the ease of the doctor’s movements and his relaxed posture, Spencer knows that he is experienced in the profession. 

“Dr. Reid,” the man smiles politely, “It’s so nice to meet you. I am Dr. Zereacor.” 

Zereacor holds out his hand and Spencer shakes it earnestly, “Please, just call me Spencer.” 

Spencer expects him to ask to move to the exam table, but Dr. Zereacor simply pulls a chair across from him to sit in instead. He feels relief.

“Spencer, how are you feeling today?” 

He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “Fine.” 

The answer is automatic. He’s accustomed to reassuring his friends, but Dr. Zereacor simply raises his eyebrow in question. Spencer swallows his nervousness and tries to focus on breathing. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he amends his lie, “I get headaches all the time.” 

Dr. Zereacor finally nods, “Your neurologist and I examined your CT scan. The tumor is resting on the parietal lobe and placing pressure against your brain.” 

“Do you… know what it is?” Spencer asks.

Zereacor leans forward, “I cannot give you a definite diagnosis without doing a biopsy, but we have some theories.”

He clutches the hem of his shirt in an attempt to steady his nerves. “Tell me.” 

The older doctor looks him over for a moment, “A guess is not a certainty. It would be best to wait and do a biopsy.” 

Spencer grits his teeth in frustration, “Doctor, I have memorized exactly six neurology textbooks within the last day and a half. That’s nearly two-thousand pages of information – eighty an hour, if you want to be more specific. There are hundreds of possibilities and dozens of malignant cancers that can arise in the brain. I cannot possibly narrow it down on my own. I have to know.”

Zereacor blinks before his lips lift in a slight smile, but it is not unkind. “Your eidetic memory is remarkable. Do you know that it is typically only found in young children? Two to ten percent of children, at that. It’s nearly nonexistent in adults.” He sighs and sits back. “It would be unfair of me to make you agonize over this any longer. The tumor could possibly be a meningioma. It’s a very common, usually benign, form of cancer that is extremely slow growing. It can grow for years before symptoms gradually begin.” 

“Or?” 

“There is also a possibility that the tumor is a glioblastoma.” his face turns grim, “It is a malignant, highly aggressive cancer that grows very quickly. Treatment is mostly palliative.” 

Spencer let that sink in, his vision tunneling. “S-So,” he licks his lips, “It could be the best or the worst outcome.” 

“And anything in-between. These are speculations between me and the neurologist, based solely on the tumor’s locale and the manifestation of your symptoms. We cannot say for certain until we’ve analyzed a proper sample.” 

That’s when the realization came to him, all at once, sitting in that uncomfortable plastic chair. Spencer suddenly understands the true gravity of his diagnosis. He may be dying. 

Zereacor sits quietly in front of him – patient, eyebrows creased in obvious concern. “You need not worry about the outcome, Spencer. Right now, you should focus on creating a support system of friends and family that will be with you every step of the way.” 

Spencer scoffs, his thoughts instantly gravitating towards his mother and father. “My mom has schizophrenia. Even if I did want to tell her, she would likely forget.” 

And who is Spencer to put his mother’s already fragile state of mind in further disarray? The conversation would slip from her thoughts by the next day. Each reminder would be fresh – she would break down into tears and be too sick with worry to eat her meals. She would insist on traveling to Virginia to be with him, leaving her vulnerable and without care. Her medications would go untouched as she gradually slipped further into her illness.

Confiding in his mother is not worth risking her life.

At Spencer’s silence, Dr. Zereacor tries to ease him into speaking again, “And your father?” he asks.

Spencer glances away, “We rarely speak to each other.” 

“Okay. What about your friends? I know you have plenty at the BAU.” 

That’s right – his team. Beautiful Jennifer with her sweet smile and encouraging motherly demeanor. Rossi’s cockeyed stare and sarcastic remarks. Emily’s calm and infinite patience in the presence of adversity or danger. The fun that Morgan pokes at the others – his flirtatious remarks that hide his utter and complete affection for the rest of the team. Garcia’s fierce, big heart that makes her tear up in the best and worst of times. And Aaron-

Aaron Hotchner. The glue that holds them all together… the man that has captured Spencer’s heart and unwillingly spun him into an unrequited love story. Aaron’s soothing tone of voice that somehow eases Spencer’s overwhelmed mind. His cool disposition that seems unbreakable; an unreadable, emotionless man to some, but an open book to Spencer. He had analyzed every little feature of Hotch’s face in a desperate attempt to gain some understanding of the man. In time, he was able to discern each expression. Like how Hotch’s eyebrows will furrow when he’s confused, or how the corners of his lips turn down when he’s upset.

Spencer’s heart aches as tears threaten to fall down his cheeks. He will never be able to tell Aaron how he feels, even if he ends up on his deathbed. 

“I don’t want to worry them.” he whispers. He feels hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this as accurately as I can. I'm not sure how a doctor would approach their patient about this. I'm not even sure what steps would be taken after such a diagnosis. But I am doing as much research as I can about this topic. Please bare with me.


	4. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's POV

He’s back in his home, staring out the window at the street below. It’s bustling with the usual weekday traffic. Spencer is suddenly envious of their obliviousness. He’s standing above them in the quiet of his apartment, stranded and lost with the burden of his possible cancer diagnosis. Spencer shuts the shades. His cell phone is buzzing against his hip. When he takes it out, Morgan’s name is flashing across the screen. He flips it open.

“Morgan, why are you calling me?” he tries to bite back the venom in his voice. 

The line crackles as Morgan breaths through his nose, “Spencer, cut the bullshit.” his stomach drops, but his partner keeps speaking before he can argue, “You’re not in Nevada.” 

“Y-Yes I am.” Spencer silently curses himself for stuttering, “My mother is sick.” 

“Mm-hm.” 

Uh-oh. 

“I-I caught an early flight back home.” he amends, panic rising in his chest. 

“Spencer, stop,” Morgan’s stern voice makes him freeze up. The other man is sighing, and Spencer can imagine him rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “Look, if something is going on, let us know. We want to help. Are you sick or something?” 

“No! No, I’m fine!” he responds too fast – too urgently. His reassurances mean nothing; he might as well be shouting into an abyss. “I’m fine.” he repeats, as if saying it aloud will make it true. 

The end of the line is silent. For once, Spencer is speechless. He doesn’t know where to begin to rectify the situation. His chances of talking his way out of this mess is zero to none, and it makes him angry. He feels somehow violated – betrayed. The very blood flowing through his veins seems to come to a boil as his skin grows warm. 

“I’ll see you at work on Monday, Morgan.” his tone is steely, even to his own ears. 

“Spencer –.” 

Spencer flips his phone shut and sinks onto the floor. He hugs his knees to his chest and buries his head in-between them. 

“Why me?” he whispers. The cellphone is still grasped in his hand. He grips it as tight as he can, cracking it under the pressure. “Why!” He screams and whips the phone against the living room wall. It breaks into a dozen pieces and they scatter across the carpet.


	5. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch's POV

Aaron Hotchner knocks on door number twenty-eight. He’s shuffling in the hallway, his gaze sweeping over the ceiling and the recently vacuumed carpet. Several of the other units on this floor have wholesome welcome mats placed in front of their doorways. An elderly woman is ambling to the stairwell at the other end of the hall – he had just ascended the same one a moment earlier. He can hear a child’s laughter filtering through the ivory painted walls. 

Finally, a lock clicks and the door swings back. Hotch releases a sigh of relief at the familiar sight of Spencer Reid. The genius is standing in the doorway, his right hand clutching the frame. Although he’s satisfied to see Spencer for himself, the young man is obviously not well. There are blackened rings under his eyes from a lack of sleep. The way he’s holding the frame makes it seem like he may collapse without it’s support. Even his cheeks seem a bit more gaunt than usual. 

Spencer is momentarily shocked before gathering his bearings, “Hotch, what are you doing here?” 

“Why did you lie about traveling to Nevada?” Hotch’s voice is cool, but he’s deeply worried for the younger agent. 

Instead of answering him, Spencer asks him to come inside. Hotch steps in, the door closing behind them. The first thing that immediately hits him is the mess. The entire room is completely disorganized, something very out of the ordinary for Spencer. He has always had a knack for cleanliness. Several books, which had once been methodically placed in order, are piled in heaps near their shelves. Dozens of medical texts lay strewn about the room, concealing most of the furniture in the apartment. 

The curtains are drawn closed to block out the afternoon sunlight – perhaps a quiet wish to withdraw from the outside world. 

Spencer is standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting nervously. His clothes are a tad wrinkly, as if he’s been sleeping in them. He gestures to the couch before rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment, “I would ask you to sit, but…” he’s staring at the books covering the seats. 

“Answer my question.” Hotch says sternly. Spencer shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable, but Hotch refuses to let up.

“I’ve been sick.” Spencer whispers, and Hotch can already discern that it’s only a half-truth. 

He supposes that it’s easy to forget that it’s impossible to hide anything from a group of profilers. Even the others have tried and failed to retain their complete privacy. However, he reminds himself that he is not here to perform an interrogation. The answer is enough, for now. He simply nods his head in response, his eyes observing Spencer’s shifting posture, his readable expressions – the way he keeps averting his gaze.

_ What are you trying to hide? _

“Did Morgan send you to check on me?” Spencer asks, a hint of frustration evident in his tone.

An ever-so-slight smile graces his lips, “Actually, I came here on my own. But you’re lucky that Morgan isn’t kicking down your door.” he steps closer to Spencer, an urge to take his hand overwhelms him. His voice softens, “He’s been very concerned – we all are.” 

When Spencer at last looks at him, they’re only feet apart. Hotch throws caution to the wind and reaches forward to take Spencer’s jittering hands into his own. Instantly, a sense of calm seems to come over Spencer and he stops trembling. They stand there, taking in each other, Hotch’s concern evident while Spencer’s eyes dance with a hundred untold truths. 

Spencer pulls away first. Hotch swears that he can see his cheeks blushing. “I’m sorry.” His sincerity is real. He wonders if he is apologizing for lying to the team or for the rare moment that they just shared.

“It’s okay.” Hotch replies. 

They’re quiet, until Spencer’s growling stomach breaks the tension. He looks up sheepishly, but Hotch simply offers to fix a meal for him. 

“Hotch, yo-you don’t have to do that. You’re my boss. I can take care of myself.” 

Hotch ignores his protests, rolling his eyes. “You’re obviously doing a poor job of it.” He is already in the process of shrugging his jacket off. Spencer watches, suddenly antsy again. “Listen, let me do this for you.” He removes his shoes, leaving them in the entryway. “I cannot leave you alone in good conscience, knowing that you’re sick.” 

He walks into the kitchen and flips on the light to start searching the cabinets for pots and pans. 

“Can you even cook, Aaron?” Spencer’s tone is playful. 

Hotch is somewhat offended, “Of course. Do you think I let Jack starve when he comes over every other weekend?” He opens the pantry and finds a variety of soups stacked on the bottom shelf. He picks one and sets it aside. He slowly gathers an array of kitchenware onto the counter.

“Baking dinosaur chicken nuggets does not count as cooking, Aaron.” 

Hotch suppresses his laughter. He composes himself and stands, a serious expression on his face, brandishing his ladle at Spencer like a sword. “Go shower before I unintentionally poison your soup.” 

For the first time since he’s arrived, Spencer actually smiles. He turns away to retreat to his bedroom. The sound of running water fills the apartment, before the bathroom door closes. Meanwhile, Hotch flips over the soup can to carefully read the instruction label. He turns on the stove and sets the pot on top of the burner. Then, just when he’s ready to pour the soup into the pot, he realizes that he’s forgotten to grab a can opener. 

He mentally goes through every cabinet and shelf that he’s already checked, but he cannot recall seeing a single can opener. He searches through the rest of the kitchen, to no avail. Hotch turns off the stove (a precaution he’s used to taking with Jack in the house) before he decides to ask Spencer. He ambles into the bedroom, unsurprised that it’s exactly as chaotic as the living area. Hotch throws the curtains open to let light into the room. 

There are papers spread across the comforter. He had overlooked them in the darkness. 

It’s the only difference between the two equally disorderly rooms. He approaches the bed, holding his breath when he recognizes a hospital logo that adorns the top of several of the documents. His hand is shaking when he picks up a particularly crumpled piece of paper. It’s covered in neat creases, as if Spencer has folded and unfolded it a dozen times. He realizes that it’s a letter from a doctor, addressed to Spencer Reid. 

When he reads it, Hotch’s heart sinks.


	6. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's POV

Hotch is sitting on the coffee table with his head in his hands. “When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice a mere whisper in the air. 

Spencer sucks in his breath. 

He knows.

At first his body is flooded with a burst of red-hot anger. “Never,” Spencer is tense – his entire body is in fight or flight mode. “It wasn’t your business.” 

His blunt honesty seems to hurt Hotch. The older man is slumped over with his shoulders rising and falling evenly, as if he’s putting all his effort into pushing air in and out of his lungs. The quiet is unbearable. Guilt turns his stomach into knots – he feels like a child that’s about to be punished for doing something wrong. 

Hotch finally raises his head to look at him. His mask is cracking – the once stoic man is breaking down into tears. He inhales a shaky breath, “How bad?” he manages. His face is pale, and his eyes are flushed red from crying. 

“The doctors aren’t sure.” Spencer averts his gaze – unable to watch someone he’s loved and admired for years fall apart right in front of him. It doesn’t feel right. 

“What about treatments?” Hotch pushes. 

Spencer shifts his weight, uncomfortable. A horrible, heavy weight settles in his chest and refuses to fade away. “I-I’m not pursuing treatment options.” he confesses.

He can hear the shift of clothing as Hotch abruptly stands. “What?” Hotch is incredulous. Spencer forces himself to look at him. He immediately wishes that he had not. 

“I’m not planning on getting treatment, Aaron.” 

Hotch stares at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Why?” 

“Why do you care?” Spencer hisses, suddenly bitter and petulant. He doesn’t understand the emotions tumbling through him and it’s frustrating. He feels betrayed, like Hotch is revealing an ugly and disgusting wound that Spencer had tried so hard to tuck away.

The question makes Hotch falter, his mouth flapping like a beached fish. “How can you even ask me that?” his voice in an octave hire and he’s visibly upset, clenching his fists together and furrowing his brows deep enough to wrinkle the bridge of his nose. 

Hotch stretches his palm out, fingers still curled together. “What about your mother?” his index finger uncurls as he begins listing off names, “Your father, Emily, JJ, Morgan, Rossi, Gideon, Garcia – hell, the entire BAU would be lost without you!” he pauses, his anger momentarily dissipating as his shoulders heave. “What about me?” he gestures between them, as if there is an invisible line connecting them together. “What about us?” 

“What about us?” Spencer yells. There are tears slipping down his cheeks now. “As far as I’m aware, there has never been an ‘us’!” 

It’s far from true, and they both know it, but he’s too hurt to admit it. His mind is already replaying all the little rare and delicate moments that they’ve shared over the last year. 

August sixth: the day that Hotch spontaneously decided to have coffee ready for him every single morning. Later, Spencer’s sudden willingness to openly share his sensitive feelings and thoughts. Then he couldn’t ignore Hotch’s palpable concern for him when he was hurt during a few particular cases. The man had even insisted on staying in the hospital with him several times.

February ninth: The very first time that his boss had held his hand – not an accidental touch, but a truly purposeful act of affection that left them both reeling with uncertainty. 

In the course of a year, the hours that they spent together had grown, until they realized that they could no longer simply consider each other a friend. 

It’s a rush of feelings that they never spoke aloud, neither alone nor in front of others. Hotch had never acknowledge the unavoidable bond growing between them - until now. 

But Spencer had trained himself to squash down the love he felt for Hotch a long time ago. It was too overwhelming – too soon. He could never imagine that Hotch, who had always been so emotionally detached and apathetic, could feel an ounce of love for Spencer Reid. Haley had been different, but openly admitting his affections for another man was too much to hope for. Then, Spencer decided to find out for himself once and for all. 

May twenty-sixth: Hotch’s rejection. The first and last time that Spencer had pushed him to recognize the connection. 

“Don’t-,” he pleads. “Don’t give me hope, Aaron.” 

Hotch winces. “I’m so sorry.” 

He seems genuine, but Spencer shakes his head. “It’s too late.” he forces himself to say it. It is absolutely agonizing to say aloud.

“I struggled to accept my sexuality.” Hotch speaks quickly, as if the words will be stolen from his lips if he doesn’t get them out fast enough. “I pushed you away because I thought these feelings,” he places his hand over his bicep, directly over his heart. “I thought that they would disappear if I stopped giving into them.” 

“Stop.” Spencer’s voice cracks – his once steady resolve is gone. His ears are ringing.

“I’m a fool.” Hotch laughs without humor. “I convinced myself that I could distance myself from you.” his façade slips, revealing a vulnerability that Spencer has only seen during their more tender moments. “I’m in love.”

“A-Aaron.” he stammers.

“I was afraid, Spencer.” Hotch is gazing at him, eyes wide and curious, as if every mystery in the world is tucked away beneath Spencer’s flesh. 

It doesn’t relieve the building pain in his heart. 

“I’m incredibly sorry that it took your diagnosis for me to finally admit it.” Hotch says, his remorse hanging onto every syllable. 

Spencer is at a loss for words, again. Hotch begins walking towards him in a trance, his eyes never leaving Spencer’s, until they’re inches from each other – so close that he can feel the warmth radiating from him. Spencer doesn’t realize that he’s shaking until Hotch grasps his shoulders. He’s clutching him firmly, as if the older man is attempting to ground them both back in reality. 

He caves under Hotch’s touch. The intensity in his chest heaves upward and manifests as a single, dry sob. The wall that he had so carefully constructed to guard his heart is finally cracking open. The truth tumbles out of him: “I’m _tired_.” 

The power and significance behind the word is insurmountable. 

And admitting that single truth is all it takes to break Spencer Reid. All the fear, bitterness, and grief pour out of him with every wracking sob. Hotch steadies him as they collapse onto the floor. He wraps his arms around Spencer in a gentle embrace. 

Every teardrop is a burden. He sheds them for his diagnosis, the abandonment he felt when his father left him, his mother’s lifelong illness, his shame when Hotch rejected him - everything that had come back to haunt him. He feels like a swollen water balloon that’s finally popped from the pressure. It is relieving to be able to cry, and he does so openly with his head resting against Hotch’s chest. There are no more secrets between them.

They both settle into each other’s arms. Hotch is carding his hands through his lanky locks of hair and whispering a comforting litany of encouragement. "Just breathe, Spencer." he soothes. Spencer clings to him like he’s a lifeboat rescuing him from a tumultuous sea. But there is a new light amongst the darkness. It’s pushing through the clouds and filling him with a serene sense of warmth.

It's hope.


End file.
